Nothing Ever Happens to Me
by ignorance-pulls
Summary: In a grimy London cafe, a strange man in a dark trench coat asks John Watson to travel with him. Desperate to escape from his mundane life, John agrees. What kinds of adventures will ensue? Rated T for possible future themes. This will be quite a long one, I think. Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or BBC Sherlock. Obviously.


_A/N: this is my first fic ever, so please be nice to me! Reviews would be happily received._

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John sat in the grimy café on the corner of the street. He stared passed the dulling, grey-spattered cream walls out of the window in the door. The sky was a mirror image of the pavements, grey and foreboding. The people bustled past, hurrying through the dim early-morning light to their jobs and to tube stations and to distant places.

He inhaled the scent of the instant coffee on his table. The drink was a slate shade today, and John wasn't sure he wanted to drink it. He didn't know what kept drawing him back to this dingy little shop before work every morning. It was just routine. Everything was routine now. Each day he got up, dressed and ate, stopped in this hateful place, went to work, came home from work, ate, showered and went to bed. Nothing happened to him.

A deep sigh escaped John's lips. He couldn't take this much longer, but equally, he didn't know what to do to stop. He needed something – anything – to make a change in his tedious life. He glanced around at the other people in the café, wondering whether they felt the same way. A man in a long, dark coat got up from his table in the opposite corner of the room, and John imagined that he was going back to his ordinary existence, alone and hopeless, just like John was about to. It was only twenty minutes until work started, and he needed to be on his way.

He reached around for his coat to find it had fallen off the chair behind him. The clattering of a chair reached his ears from somewhere nearby. He sat up, pulling on his jacket, and nearly jumped out of his skin. The tall man in the trench coat had sat himself at the opposite side of the table and was now regarding John with a piercing stare.

"Wha- er… hi," John stuttered, but was interrupted by the stranger.

"You're bored, aren't you, Dr Watson?"

"Who are you?" John frowned, confused at the man's abrupt manner.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, and you're bored, aren't you?"

"No- well, I mean, yes, I am but why… how would you know that?"

"Well, you're an ex-soldier – well, army doctor – and you're working in a surgery. You come here every morning, sit by yourself at the same table, and sigh over your coffee. You're living alone then, no partner, and quite obviously bored with life. Only working because the army pension is, quite frankly awful." The man smirked.

"Right." John's head spun. "I need to go, I need to get to work, and please stop stalking me." He tucked in his chair, leaving his untouched coffee on the table, and starting to walk towards the door.

"Wait a moment. Why would I be stalking you?" The man named Sherlock Holmes seemed to be genuinely puzzled.

"You just told me all that – all that information about me – and you've never even spoken to me before! How else could you know that?"

Sherlock Holmes chuckled, the skin wrinkling into smile lines around the corner of his mouth. "Well, it's perfectly easy to see, really, isn't it?" When the shorter man looked blankly at him, he continued, obviously pleased. "Your gait and haircut say army. Your name tag's hanging out of your breast pocket and that border belongs to the local surgery. Your name's on that. What sort of an ex-soldier works at a surgery? An army doctor, of course. You never bring anyone in here with you, and you haven't a wedding ring or even an expensive watch that could have been given by a partner. So living alone. Put that all together, and it's not surprising you're bored." John seemed to be about to interrupt, but Sherlock continued. "I'm bored, too. I need to get away from London, and I believe, quite reasonably, I think, that you'd like to come with me."

John was nothing short of dumbfounded. What sort of a person asks a stranger to go on holiday with them? What sort of stranger looks at another man and notices little details like that? Sherlock Holmes was a nutcase. There was no way John would ever go with him.

Or was there? Nothing interesting happened to John, ever. And surely even travelling with a bizarre stranger would be better than what he had. But he had a job…

"We can go to the surgery now and tell them you've resigned," Sherlock added. Was he a mind reader?

John took a deep breath. Was he going crazy? Probably.

"OK."

Sherlock Holmes' face showed not even a hint of surprise. He pushed back his seat and stood up in one swift motion, waiting for John to follow.

By the time they reached the doors of the surgery ten minutes later, John had cycled through numerous emotions, eventually settling on "I just need to do something other than work." However, as the automatic doors slid open, making him wince with their high-pitched squeaking, he was questioning himself a little.

Sherlock made a small gesture to prompt John to tell the man at the front desk that he was leaving. He didn't seem to realise that this was a significant event for John. A thought struck the shorter man. What were they going to do about money? But it was a little too late to ask now, as his legs carried him confidently to reception.

"Hello, Dr Watson, do you want to sign in?" The smiling man behind the desk pointed to the touchscreen beside him.

"No. Actually, I'm re-" – the breath caught in John's throat – "I'm resigning."

The receptionist's eyebrows shot up. "Well, it'll take a month for the-"

"No," John cut in, "I'm leaving now."

"I'm sorry, Dr Watson, you have to give a month's notice before you go."

"Well, I'm leaving now. Sorry about that. Been a pleasure working with you."

John's heartbeat thudded in his ears. What had he just done? Given up his career to chase a madman around? It seemed that way.

Sherlock waited outside. He gave a brief smile to John and turned, his coat flying out behind him.

"Sherlock, where are we going?" asked John, jogging to catch up with the tall man.

"I don't know, Dr Watson. Let's find out."


End file.
